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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152699">These Hands of Mine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu'>roraruu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crying, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-War, really not ment to be romantic but you can read it that way?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:33:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152699</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Faye has always thought she's good with her hands, no matter what they've done before. Lukas thinks otherwise... about himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Efi | Faye &amp; Lukas (Fire Emblem)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>These Hands of Mine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/theatrythms/gifts">theatrythms</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i rewatched holes the other day and got whipped back to my schoolteacher au for lukas and (jesse voice) woof. i cried twice btw when sam was like "i  can fix that". i just think faye and lukas balance each other out real  nicely.<br/>context is: faye was on celica's route, never met lukas, returns to ram, reopens the schoolhouse that kliff attended. lukas leaves the brotherhood of knights or whatever and take the position as the teacher of the schoolhouse, becomes faye's boarder bc she is broke. also the village girls turn up to faye's place bc they wanna see the cute new teacher (i dont blame em tbh)<br/>finally this is for em based on some conversations we've had abt these dorks.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Faye thinks that she’s good with her hands. Always has been. They are the ones that rolled dough and kneaded bread. Ones that pulled vegetables and flowers from the earth when the harvest came in. Ones that stitched up torn shirts and quilted blankets. Ones that dressed wounds and held down people while Genny and Celica performed white magic. Ones that wielded a lance and were slick and sticky with blood for days at a time once in her life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was a cavalier in the war, offered herself to Celica. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Guide me down any path.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> She had practically begged when they left Ram. She was desperate to be useful, desperate to be wanted in any way she could be. Celica had nodded and patted her shoulder, promising that she would lead her well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not long after, they had found her steed, Rosanne, abandoned with the tack, bridle and saddle still on her back. She was grazing in a field, left behind by a soldier or farmer. And in the eyes of her steed, she found a kindred spirit. Both left behind, both ready and willing to be used for any goal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Often, thanks to her mobility and strength, Faye was ordered to the furthest sections of the battlefield. She was quick enough to prevent a deadly arrow from hitting Mae, or flashing Rosanne’s armour to ping pong black magic away from Kamui.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they said villagers had little potential.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Faye sometimes wonders why she wasn’t a cleric or a mage. Perhaps Celica had seen Rosanne out in that field when they were moving into the village. Perhaps it was because Faye wasn’t the most... delicate. Healers all have that calm angelic look: she sees it in Genny and Celica and even Mae if she squints. But in the mirror she can’t see it in her, just the tired eyes of a soldier and invisible blood that stains her hands. And while she is good with them, it doesn’t mean her pastry comes out nice and tender and flaky like her Nana’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The summer breeze kicks up through the open back door, the wind chimes made of old seashells and smooth stones clanging together. Her stitching is almost complete for the week. In the back of her mind, she wonders what she will do with herself for the following nights. Since Lukas arrived, the other village women saw any reason to bring their torn dresses and garments to her, just to get a glimpse at her handsome boarder.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her </span>
  </em>
  <span>boarder. It feels strange to admit that there is a boarder in her childhood home. In the halls where she had run through with Tobin and Gray and Kliff and Alm, where her family celebrated the solstices, where she had cried on the sofa over a broken heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls at the thread in the apron. It’s been washed, dried and sewn, ready to be returned so she can get pay. Surely a few silver marks for such a nice job, maybe enough for a cut of meat or some sausage. In her mind, she thinks of what they will eat this week. Lukas never has any requests, only a smile from his lips when he says: </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Anything you cook will be fine, I’m certain.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She has to give her Nana the death glare whenever he speaks to her so she won’t smirk and say something silly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, Lukas only smiles and plays along with her Nana’s games. A gentleman at heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following her nightly routine, Faye finishes her stitching. Her fingers graze over the fabric, folding in the ties, then smoothing out the wrinkles before neatly folding it into a little square. She adds it to the pile for the baker’s daughter. She has come around often, batting her doe eyes at Lukas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Faye listens to the sounds outside. The chimes softly whimper against the warm air. Lukas sits on the back porch. He has said he enjoys marking his students’ work outside, that looking up at Faye’s little garden calms him and puts his mind at ease. She remembers thanking him for such a compliment and feeling her face flush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sits back in her chair, the old wood creaking as she stares at the wooden ceiling of the little cottage. Her hands curl into the seat, the wood marking her fingertips as she stretches her legs out and rests back. Her usual routine would have her boil the kettle for tea and make sure that her Nana is asleep. Then she would sip her tea in silence, perhaps mull over old letters from Boey or Conrad or Celica. Maybe she would go to her room and work on another dress that she would never have the occasion to wear—as she has a closet full of similar ones—or perhaps leaf through an old book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Faye thinks of Lukas, out alone on the back porch. She swings her legs around, pushing herself up from the kitchen table and gets the kettle to fill with rainwater from the barrel. She can ask in passing if he would like a cup, sparing the two of them from extra conversation. Their words so far have been trite, meagre and tense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crickets sing as Faye moves closer and closer to the back door, pulling open the lower half. She moves slowly, to not break Lukas’s concentration. He’s probably grading: a teacher rarely has a break for themselves. Faye saw it first hand with Mycen, who always was training someone or something, be it the villagers or the swing of his arm to the axe.<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wooden boards of the porch creak as she steps out, and hops down the steps to the rain barrel. She pulls off the lid, dipping the copper kettle into the water. Her voice is only a soft whine. “I’m going to have a cup of tea, would you care for one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words barely leave her mouth when she looks up. Lukas’s cheeks are shiny, tracks of tears marking his face. Her grip tightens around the kettle, realizing how heavy it is in her hands. With only a glance, she’s washed with memories of the war. Of crying villagers they passed—saying that Mila had returned to them in the form of Celica—of enemy witches whose humanity was returned cruelly in her last moments of life. Of her own tears after the boys left Ram Village without glancing once more at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words catch in her throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faye swallows them back, tries again, but once more they catch. She hears Lukas draw a breath, deep a rolling through his body. She realizes that he has a book in his hands, image and sound finally connecting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would take one, yes.” He says. His voice is hoarse, raw. She hadn’t heard him cry out. She has never met a silent crier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, she draws the kettle through the water, filling it up before replacing the lid and starting up the steps. She keeps her gaze to the steps for a moment, before turning to Lukas. He looks small in that wicker chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Funny. Her father had built it with reeds from the sea shore which isn’t too far from here. It had always been on the smaller side, built for the small body of a woman instead of a knight. To be exact, it was built for her mother, to watch while Faye played in the summertime. But now, the knight in red—the man that Gray said took down a battalion without breaking a sweat—looks so small, so meek, so broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stands and stares at him. She knows it’s rude to stare—if her mother was still alive, she would be chastising her right now—but something about Lukas captivates her. Perhaps it’s that his tie is loosened, his dress shirt rolled to the elbows and wrinkled, his trousers creased from the week’s study. He looks human, not like the fortress that’s been constructed in her mind from letters and whispers at the well.<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look like the noble knight that Gray and Tobin had claimed he was. He looks like a broken soldier, same as she.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faye’s hand moves into the pocket of her apron. She pulls out a handkerchief, offering it to him. He glances to it, then to her. “Thank you.” His voice croaks as she nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” She asks cautiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will be.” He assures her, meeting her gaze. He doesn’t take the handkerchief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few more tears roll down his cheeks. Faye sets the kettle on the porch, kneels before him. “Look to me.” She orders as softly as she can manage. “I can mend this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas turns his face to her. Gently, she tilts his chin down so that she can wipe away his tears with the cloth. Her hand lingers, the pad of her thumb grazing his cheek for a brief moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies.” The knight says. He clears his throat, prompting Faye to busy herself with refolding her handkerchief. “I adore this book. It is from my youth. Seems it stirred my emotions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faye shrugs. “That’s no problem. You don’t need to say sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I gave you a start, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” Lukas falls silent as he looks back to the garden, flowering with Flostym blooms. His eyes are a lovely shade of dark brown or blackish red; she can’t quite tell. She follows the steep curve of his nose to his lips, pausing as he bites the inside of one of them. “After all, your eyes are too lovely. For them to weep is a loss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances at her. The corner of his lips turn up in a smile, a rarity in all ways. Her eyes glance to the hardcover in his hands. “What book are you reading?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Old poetry.”<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” She says. She’s never been a reader. "Do you have a favourite?"<br/></span>
</p><p>Once again, his eyes flicker between her and the book. His smile returns, this time a little stronger, a little more sure. He nods quickly.</p><p>Faye sets the kettle on the porch, her fingers grazing the old wood. She dips her head to look at the cracks and crevices beneath her fingers. Her plaits slip over her shoulders, hiding her face. "How does it go?"</p><p>Lukas flips over the book, his eyes returning to the pages. His voice sounds fuller, less weak and shaky. He moves into the role of schoolteacher, his eyes focused upon the pages, his voice low and even and his posture tall and bearing. Faye can see him in front of the village kids, perhaps reading them this very poem.<br/>"<em><span>What is love<br/>b</span></em><em><span>ut the craving, the yearning;<br/></span></em><em><span>the chase and the catch?<br/></span></em><em><span>The pain and the aching<br/></span></em><em><span>of what can or cannot be snatch’d.</span></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or of the Gods who play tricks,<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>on the poor souls of fools,<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>who long to become lovers<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Be it only for time’s little spool. <br/></span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And the pain that follows, </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>in which we both wallow.<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>That fall between the changing of seasons, and heighten </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>our lessened reason.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flicker to his, welling up with few tears. She has to blink quickly to keep them from falling. “That’s beautiful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My Mother and Governess read me it often.” Lukas murmurs, one of his fingers tracing the pages. He looks at her. “You... You served in the war too, correct?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faye nods, her plaits falling back. “Yes I did. I was cavalry in service to her Majesty, the Queen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is unused to calling Celica her queen, in the same way she is unused to calling Alm her king. And how they are Albein and Anthiese. In her mind, they will always be Alm and Celica, her friends from Ram. The ones that she holds too dearly to her heart, in her aching hands.<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The children ask me about it often.” He says before correcting himself with a clear of his throat. “My students, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faye remembers their badgering questions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Did you kill someone? Are you a Lady now? What was the war like? </span>
  </em>
  <span>They still ask sometimes when she gives them first aid training or sword practice. It is something she does, as she thinks Mycen would do if he were here now. In some little way they respect her: when she passes children with a basket of deliveries on her hip, some greet her with a chipper <em>good morning Miss Faye</em>, or ask how she is faring, what she will do today...<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes I wonder if I am worthy of teaching them. My hands have held worse things than a metre stick and chalk. They are unused to such civilian things.” He murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes Faye wonders if the needle in her hands will turn back and stab her in the palm. Her hands are used to a lance, heavy in her hands; her feet are used to being in stirrups; her body is used to walking with a start in the night, to hearing someone scream out for Genny to heal them. A shiver runs down her spine, reminded of Gray’s words about Lukas being a beast in battle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, she finds herself reaching out to touch him. His hand is limp and cold in hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I deserve to touch you?” He asks, staring at her now. “My hands are unclean after everything I have done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So are mine.” She whispers, her voice small and meek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at her. She squeezes his hand tightly, while his only stays slack in hers. “I want you to touch me. I have done horrible things too. I don’t care what you did.” She whispers. “Just touch me, know that I am here with you”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels her own heart stop at the words as they leave her mouth. Her blood freezes as her hand reaches out to take his other from his book. She turns it over in his lap, and then moves his hand to touch her cheek gently. She feels embarrassment run hot in her veins. But still, Faye stares at him with the same unmoving devotion that she had when she fought for the Pilgrimage and for her friends.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas’s hand curls around hers, slipping through her fingers and lacing together neatly. He gently squeezes and holds her hand tight, staring at her with those dark brown or black red eyes that confuse her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There. It’s okay now.” She promises him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is okay now.” Lukas repeats, letting her words calm him. She turns her face into his cheek and without thinking, presses a protective kiss into her palm, as her mother used to do to her before she fell asleep at night, or went to train, or left to collect flowers from the meadow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand falls from her cheek and loosens in her hand. She feels a flush of heat wash over her body, enveloping her in a full-body blush. The consequences of her actions set in hot and fast; embarrassment will follow her for weeks, making a cozy home in her mind and paying the rent in blushes and cringes. She stands, picking up the kettle and bowing. “I’ll leave a cup out for you.” She says. “Good night Lukas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knight’s eyes are wide and staring at her with such... </span>
  <em>
    <span>emotion </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the only word she can think of. Lukas’s fingertips graze his book again as Faye goes back into the house. The door slams behind her as she throws the kettle on the flickering fire and she curses herself out for her idiocy and tenderness.</span>
</p>
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